


Just a Chance

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-14
Updated: 2006-06-14
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Angst! Pain! Woe! (actually there's some angst and teasing and then a fairly saccharine ending, because I'm me)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Just a Chance

Title: Just a Chance  
Author: Impertinence  
Rating: R for language. And brokissing.  
Pairing: Sam/Dean  
Summary: Angst! Pain! Woe! (actually there's some angst and teasing and then a fairly saccharine ending, because I'm me)  
Spoilers: Uhm. None, really. This is set in some indeterminate time in S1.  
Author's Note: For the Supernatural Slash Fic Angstathon, which is really a huge mouthful and might fit on a t-shirt, but not a button. This fic's for [ ](http://venilia.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://venilia.livejournal.com/)**venilia**. She wanted Dean!issues angst, omg-I'm-in-love-with-my-brother, does-he-love-me-back angst, the boys being boyish, metallicar love. It's fairly short, and the ending might make your eyeballs dribble out of your brain if you're really hardcore about the angst love.  
  
  
  
He knows it’ll never happen.  
  
Dad taught him a long time ago to compartmentalize, box things away and stop thinking. Dean’s pretty good at it, when all’s said and done. Sam is his brother. He can separate that from…other things.  
  
Because it’s impossible, and he tells himself so every second of every day. Sam yawns and stretches as he gets out of bed, and Dean tells himself that he’ll never get to help him with that little problem he seems to have every morning. Sam gulps down obnoxiously sweet hot chocolate, and Dean reminds his libido that it’s not his job to lick the milk mustache off. Sam’s eyes grow soft as he helps another confused townsperson tell them about the latest supernatural disaster, and Dean berates himself for wanting that look directed towards him.  
  
But God, when Sam slants his eyes towards him and laughs, Dean just about loses it.  
  
Sometimes there are moments when he almost thinks that Sam knows how he feels and is trying to communicate—acceptance? Understanding? Like that time in the diner so far into south Texas that they were practically sitting on the Mexican border, that time when even though the booth was plenty big enough Sam’s knee touched his the entire time.  
  
It was comforting but not in the brotherly way he’s afraid Sam meant it to be. And there’ve been other times—times when Sam used touch instead of words and Dean clung to them, clung to him, because no matter what Sam thinks about this the touch feels good and clean and right.  
  
_Wrong._ Because that’s not how it’s supposed to feel, and Dean knows Sam would be repulsed if he ever knew. Dean’s delusions are one thing; he can accept that he’s fucked up. But it’s a whole new level of crazy when he starts hoping for what he knows he’ll never have.  
  
“Come on, dude,” Sam says, hopping onto the hood of the Impala. And Dean might love Sam in every way possible, but _hell no_ he’s not going to start abusing the car.  
  
“You ever do that again and I swear I’ll shoot you.”  
  
“What, this?” Sam grins and draws a finger along the dust on the Impala’s hood. Dean winces at the sight, unable to stop himself from imagining the paint being scratched.  
  
“Man, stop it! Do you have any idea how much that paint job is worth?”  
  
“More than you?” Sam jokes, pulling his finger around in a circle. The little bastard’s drawing a smiley face. A smiley face that will _scratch the fucking paint._  
  
Almost before Dean realizes what he’s doing, he’s tackled Sam and pushed him onto the soft green grass, pinning his hands above him. Rather than try to fight back, Sam’s laughing in his face.   
  
“Don’t touch my car,” he mocks in a squeaky falsetto. “Sammy, I’m begging you, don’t touch my car!”  
  
Dean stares at him, for once at a complete loss for words. Sam’s entire face is glowing, his body’s wriggling, and Dean—Dean’s responding.  
  
He lets go immediately and backs off. “Sorry, man.”  
  
Sam’s still grinning. “Why’d you let me go? Scared I can kick your ass?”  
  
Even lust- and guilt-crazed, Dean and his ego take exception to that. “Of course not,” he scoffs. “I just don’t want you gettin’ yourself hurt, is all.”  
  
“Riiight.” He draws out the syllable, mouth twisting into a half-sneer, and fucked if that bolt of lust doesn’t hit Dean like a brick to the head. Wonderful.  
  
“Just get in the car,” he says briskly, and for once Sam obeys.  
  
||  
  
Dean really hates it when one or the other of them gets wounded, because Sam’s somehow always the one who ends up dressing wounds. It’s not that Dean is squeamish, of course. He can handle the sight of blood and guts.  
  
He just passes out when he sees _human_ blood, is all.  
  
It’s a purely physical reaction. Nothing to be ashamed of. Kind of like this thing with Sam, actually. But Sam never misses out on a chance to rib him about it.  
  
That’s not really the problem; Dean can handle Sam’s teasing. The problem is that when he dabs hydrogen peroxide on the cuts Dean can never stop the hiss of pain, and Sam’s reaction to that is always the same: he purses his lips and blows gently, and suddenly pain is the furthest thing from Dean’s mind.  
  
When he relaxes again Sam smiles at him. “You always do this,” he scolds, and his voice is low enough that the words sound almost gentle. “Why?”  
  
“Because it fucking hurts, idiot,” Dean says, gritting his teeth.   
  
“I don’t act like a baby.” Now Sam looks smug and shit, something inside Dean breaks because it’s actually better than the lip-pursing.  
  
Somebody up in heaven or wherever must really, really hate him.  
  
“Shut your fucking mouth,” Dean grumbles, yanking his shirt sleeve down and backing away from Sam. It’s a precautionary measure, he tells himself. He’s gotten used to avoiding his brother when things get…intense.  
  
Sam laughs again, and the hotel room is dark and musty but Dean swears that when his brother laughs the whole damn place lights up. “You’re such a dork,” he says, grin lighting up his face.  
  
“Yeah, whatever.” Dean stands up and goes for his guns, taking them out and polishing them. “It’s not my fault I have a—“  
  
“Phobia?”  
  
His scowl deepens. “ _Problem._ ” But then, because he can’t resist, he adds, “And hey, at least I don’t whimper like a baby when the car goes past 60 miles an hour.”  
  
He knows that he’ll spend at least the next two nights thinking on how Sam’s glower makes him that much more appealing. Maybe he’ll even jack off to it in the shower and then run off to some bar afterwards because he can’t stand to see Sam so much as look at him after that shit happens. Right now though he and Sam are competing brothers, and Dean’s not going to back down just because his dick’s getting hard.   
  
“Aw, come on, don’t you remember that? I floored it to get away from that cop, and by the time we stopped in the 7-11 you were crouched on the floor, cryin’ your heart out.” Dean smirks and pats Sam on the head. “It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone about what a girl you are.”  
  
“You’re a jerk,” Sam informs him, but he’s got no defense and they both know it. “That was one time, okay?”  
  
“Unless you count that time I got us in a road rage, or that one time we stole the cop car.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I also drove 100 in a 40-mile zone to save your ass from an evil scarecrow!”  
  
Dean cocks his head at Sam. His brother’s cheeks are flushed and his fists are clenched, and Dean knows he’s pissed. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “I know. I told you thanks for that, right?”  
  
Sam relaxes instantly. “Either way, you still owe me,” he says, a slight smile back on his face.  
  
Dean’s not sure he ever wants to find out how far he’d go to keep Sam happy.  
  
Despite the fact that the warm smiles aren’t really directed at him, despite Sam’s painfully clear indifference to anything Dean does, he can’t help but hope.  
  
Every time he sees Sam laugh, he falls just a little bit more in love—and it’s killing him.  
  
||  
  
Sam’s starting to worry about Dean.  
  
Well, no. That’s a lie. He’s worried about Dean almost since before he understood the meaning of the word. He spent four years worrying about Dean, waiting anxiously for the birthday and Christmas cards because they were proof that his brother was okay, that no monster had managed to kill him yet.  
  
But lately he’s been—wilting, almost. It’s been an entire week since he tried to hit on a waitress, and that’s just plain not normal.   
  
Now they’re squished into yet another greasy fast food booth outside of some dreary town in Michigan. It’s freezing and gloomy outside, and really it’s no wonder that Dean’s depressed—Sam is, too.  
  
“I’m cold,” Dean complains, poking holes in the cheap paper napkin. “And our food’s takin’ forever.”  
  
“For God’s sake, it’s heated in here,” Sam says, annoyed. “You can’t be that cold.”  
  
Wordlessly, Dean holds out his hand. The veins stand out starkly, and he’s trembling.  
  
Okay, Sam was wrong.  
  
He sighs and scoots closer to the window. “Get over here,” he orders softly, steeling himself for what’ll come next.  
  
Dean grins triumphantly and practically vaults over the table. The look on his face is more than enough compensation for the fact that now his very cold and wiggly brother is plastered up against his left side.  
  
“Thank God I’ve got a human furnace for a brother,” he says, and Sam tries not to flinch at yet another bit of proof that Dean doesn’t understand how he feels, and he sure as hell doesn’t reciprocate it. It’s fucking stupid to even think he might.  
  
Later that night, Dean is staring out the window as Sam pretends to sleep. One of his eyes is just barely open, keeping an eye on his older brother as he alternately hits his head against the misty pane and shuts his eyes, screwing up his face like something’s actively hurting him.  
  
Sam would give anything to make that look go away. Dean does it for him every day—makes him laugh, pushes through whatever pain he has and gives Sam joy, even if it’s just for a second.  
  
Why can’t Sam do that for him?  
  
About the fifth time Dean sighs and hits his head against the pane, Sam decides he’s had enough. “Dean,” he calls out hoarsely, not even bothering to lift his head off the pillow, “Are you gonna go to bed, or not?”  
  
“Not tired,” he mutters, but Sam’s not as stupid as he thinks Dean would like him to be.   
  
“You’re going to kill yourself if you don’t sleep more,” he says bluntly. “I don’t feel like explaining to the morgue how my brother died for the second time.”  
  
“Ha fuckin’ ha,” he says sarcastically. “My bed’s lumpy.”  
  
Sam rolls his eyes. “Dean, you’ve slept in a gravel driveway before.”  
  
“So?” And there’s that tone, the sulky stubbornness, that lets Sam know that Dean’s just being unreasonable for the sake of being unreasonable.   
  
“So,” and he draws the syllable out deliberately, “Stop being a baby and get your ass in your bed.”  
  
He obeys sulkily, flopping down on the mattress without even bothering to toe his boots off. Sam closes his eyes again, satisfied, but before long Dean’s letting out pissy little sighs and _whump_ ing his fist against the wall.  
  
“You’re so freakin’ juvenile.” Sam grimaces at the ceiling. “Come on over here, then.”  
  
“Naw, man, I’ll be alright,” Dean says quickly. Too quickly, and even though it’s an awkward as hell conversation Sam feels a bit of hope stab him deep in his chest.  
  
“Come on, Dean. We’ve slept together before.”  
  
A cynical snort is his only response.  
  
“God! Not like that!” Not that he’d mind, or anything—but as soon as that thought makes itself known Sam squashes it stubbornly. “You’re such a pervert,” he adds, laughing a little.  
  
Dean rolls over, staring at him; Sam, still grinning, meets his gaze.  
  
He’s not sure what changes then, but Dean’s eyes flicker over him and then suddenly he’s rolling out of his bed and nudging Sam over.  
  
Dean’s body is cold like it always is, and Sam scrunches up his face in a semblance of protest even as he draws Dean nearer and wraps his arms around him.  
  
They haven’t done this in a long, long time, but nothing’s changed. Dean’s still gruff and prickly, never letting Sam treat him gently—and Sam keeps trying, because Dean’s clinging to him as much as he ever did and Sam knows that he needs this, needs the warmth and the assurance that everything’s okay.  
  
“I’m sorry.” The words slip out breathily; for a second he’s not even sure he said them, until he feels Dean stiffen.  
  
“For what?” Dean asks cautiously.  
  
“Everything. The fights…college…what I said about Dad…” _The fact that having you here with me is making me hard. The fact that I love you in a way that you’ll never want._  
  
He might’ve opened his idiot mouth and said the rest, but Dean slammed him back against the headboard. “Hey!”  
  
“Don’t say that,” he says fiercely. “Don’t you fucking _ever_ say that! Do you have any idea how much I—how—“  
  
Sam just stares back at him, hardly hearing the words, mind taking in every little nuance of expression that flits across Dean’s face. He thinks he sees something—something important—and then suddenly Dean’s expression changes and Sam’s entire world has been set on end, because everything he’s ever thought late at night when the guilt is a little less intense, every thought and sensation and hidden fear, is looking back at him in his brother’s eyes.  
  
So he leans forward and kisses him.  
  
Dean actually becomes stiffer, freezing in fear. Sam kisses him carefully, teeth catching his upper lip, tongue tracing the outline of his mouth. He’s glad Dean’s got his hands pinned half-under him, because he’s pretty sure they’d be shaking if the warm pressure of Dean’s body wasn’t weighing them down.  
  
Calloused hands come up to cup his head, thread fingers through his hair, and it’s weirder than the anything they’ve ever hunted because Dean’s lips still aren’t moving. But then the fingers yank, pulling his head back, fitting their lips together more roughly. Dean’s kissing him back now, rough and wet and messy.  
  
It’s the most perfect thing Sam’s ever felt.  
  
When the kiss ends they’re both gasping, eyelids fluttering, neither of them really believing what just happened. Well, okay. Sam can deal with this.  
  
He takes a deep breath, fingers flexing in between them, and now the weight doesn’t help because both their bodies are trembling. “Okay,” he says slowly. “That was…weird.”  
  
“Sam, I didn’t—“  
  
“Shut up,” Sam orders, and he brushes their lips together again softly. “Just…in the morning. We’ll deal with it in the morning.”  
  
Dean’s lips quirk up in a wry smile. “Alright then.”  
  
They lie back down and it’s soft and easy, the opposite of what it should be, and just the thought has Sam laughing because it’s always the opposite of how it should be with them. Dean grumbles like he always does when Sam’s mirth surfaces randomly, except things are different now—so this time Sam explains the joke.  
  
It’s the middle of the night, but Sam swears the room becomes just a little bit brighter when Dean throws back his head and laughs.  
  
||


End file.
